


a firm and tender hand

by Ponderosa (ponderosa121)



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Fingering, BDSM Scene, Canon Character of Color, Coming Untouched, Crying, Daddy Kink, First Time, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Older Man/Younger Man, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Prodigal Son Kink Meme, Rimming, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:22:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22292524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderosa121/pseuds/Ponderosa
Summary: Gil smiles softly and hopes Malcolm doesn’t interpret it as pity. How much, he can’t help but wonder, did being able to give up control help Malcolm tame all those demons he can never seem to get rid of?[fill for a G/M spanking prompt on the pson kink meme]
Relationships: Gil Arroyo/Malcolm Bright
Comments: 24
Kudos: 162
Collections: Prodigal Son Kink Meme





	a firm and tender hand

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to all the trash discord folx for being the BEST. Extra kudos to [theyhulk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theyhulk) for giving this a read and [KateSamantha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/katesamantha) for coining Malcolm's safeword.
> 
> Other content notes: this contains a touch of 'is this wrong??', legit Daddy/son vs my other Daddy!Gil fics, and use of 'pussy' in a consenting non-degrading way.

How many times has this happened now? A case winding down and with it, Malcolm’s edgy mania ramping up. He’s always fine for a few days, but after that, he gets desperate, calling Gil sometimes twice a day to ask if there’s anything he can do. 

Gil stares at Malcolm’s name as it pops up on his phone. What will it be this time? _Just checking in…. Anything yet? I was thinking about that other cold file…._

Unfortunately he doesn’t have anything on the docket. They’re running down leads on cases Malcolm has no cause to be anywhere near, and the more he lets the kid hang around, the more eyes he’s going to have on his team. With the sort of trouble Malcolm gets into, Gil wants as little scrutiny as possible and clearance rates only buy him so much leeway. Reluctantly, he thumbs the red button and lets it go to voicemail.

When he finally listens to the message after his shift, he’s glad that firstly, he’s in the privacy of his car, and secondly, that he hadn’t picked it up at work.

_“Oop, I forgot that was in my pocket,” Malcolm is saying, but it’s distant. “Can you—”_

There’s a garbled reply (a woman’s voice?) and the sound of a fingernail being tapped against the glass of the screen.

_“Gil is my— Well, my boss, I guess. Please hang that up.”_

_“Seems like you don’t want your boss to know what you’re up to in the middle of the day.”_

_“It’s not really any of his business.”_

_“Did I say you could move? You are_ such _a bad boy.”_

There’s a sharp cracking sound of hand meeting skin and the sound of chains rattling strangles Malcolm’s startled yelp. A click and another rattle precedes his firmly unamused, _“I said: please hang up,”_ before the recording ends.

So, the kid is kinky. That doesn’t really come as a surprise, but it’s still knowledge Gil has to sit with in the crawl of evening traffic.

*

Malcolm doesn’t call him for days after that, but just as he’s starting to get worried about the kid, a case falls in his lap. He does a fairly good job of pretending like there’s nothing out of the ordinary as he brings Malcolm in on it, or at least he thinks so until in the middle of the crime scene, Malcolm pulls him aside for a word.

“What is it?” he asks, all too conscious now of the wrong things. There’s no way Malcolm doesn’t see it in the way he’s standing, or looking, or trying not to look as the case may be.

Malcolm looks equally uncomfortable. “Can you maybe step outside for a minute? I’m having a hard time concentrating.”

How embarrassing must it be for Malcolm to have that call in his logs, Gil thinks, and bristles at being freshly reminded of that unknown woman who’d ignored Malcolm’s request for her to hang up.

Gil glances at the rest of the team; they’re hard at work so there’s really no reason he needs to hover. “Sure thing, Bright,” he says, and goes to check on the lab techs bagging evidence in the other room.

Later, when Dani asks him quietly what their little side chat was all about, he wrestles to find something to say. Apparently long enough that she comes to her own conclusion and shrugs it off as a new quirk of Malcolm’s. Gil silently sends up a prayer of thanks and then it’s heads down and focus—on the case, on the leads, on anything other than dwelling on that sharp crack and yelp and Malcolm being called a _bad boy_. 

He _tries_ not to dwell on it, but here and there throughout the week his mind keeps pulling back to it, and it gets his hackles up every single time because at his core he knows Malcolm deserves a firm and tender hand, not a cruel one. Never a cruel one.

*

When the case is closed and the perp is cooling in a cell, it’s his turn to pull Malcolm aside. Malcolm follows him into his office.

“You really should never say ‘Bright, we need to talk’ in that tone,” Malcolm says, his gaze tracking Gil as he shuts the door. “Frankly, it’s terrifying.”

Gil puts his desk between them like a barrier. “Fine, but we do need to talk. Last week,” he begins, and steels himself for this conversation by keeping his tone calm and quiet, “I received a voicemail left by your number. I’m sure you know the call.”

The breezy attitude Malcolm’s manufactured crumples slightly at the edges. “Ah. Things suddenly make a lot more sense now,” he says in an equally measured tone. He laces his fingers together in front of himself and glances briefly towards the windows where people are hard at work. Everything about him screams composure and Gil isn’t buying it.

“If knowing that I overheard part of your… _date_...is making it difficult for you to work with me,” Gil says, trailing off when he can’t quite find the right words. What will fix this? HR scripts never covered a situation like this. “Look, you can’t keep asking me to leave if you’re getting distracted or feeling embarrassed with me around.”

Malcolm’s eyes flash and his mouth twists briefly. “Gil, I, um—” he tilts his head slightly, seeming to try and find the right words himself. He draws in a breath and then releases it slowly. “Well I hadn’t known it went to voicemail and…. How can I say this…? It’s not me, it’s you.”

Taken aback, Gil stands up to his full height. “Sorry, what?”

Disentangling his fingers, Malcolm gestures between them, animated again, that forced calmness scattering like rats. He skirts the edge of the desk, putting his back to the windows and making the conversation suddenly far more intimate. “Now I know why, but you haven’t been able to really look at me since this case started. Even now, you’re not quite meeting my eyes. So I’ve been distracted, yes, but only because I’ve been feeling like you’ve been staring at me like…like some kind of new animal at the zoo.”

Gil’s gaze snaps up from where it had been studiously fixed at the bridge of Malcolm’s nose. Well, he can’t deny that he was trying to avoid staring into those baby blues. He sets his hands on his hips in part to keep them occupied and to keep Malcolm from inferring something from his stance. An animal at the zoo, though? He’s never looked at the kid like he’s some kind of freakshow. “Do you think I have a problem with whatever activities you do on your own time?”

“A problem? No.”

When Gil’s brows start to pull together, Malcolm huffs a quiet laugh. The kid does his own body language management, slipping his hands into the pockets of his slacks, his shoulders rolling back and down.

“If anything it’s the opposite,” Malcolm says, and Gil gets the distinct impression he’s being profiled. “My guess is that you can’t look at me without thinking about what you believe happened during or after that call.”

He can’t, but the way Malcolm is choosing his words is giving Gil the heebie-jeebies. “What are you saying?”

“I’m afraid you misinterpreted a few things, and I admit it’s a surprise that you, um, extrapolated in this fashion from there.”

It’s useless trying to pretend otherwise, so Gil just cocks an eyebrow to tell Malcolm to go on.

“Well, for starters, let’s just confirm that I am pretty kinky, so I understand where you’re coming from when you based your assumptions on what you heard. That _was_ the sound of a leash, but in this case it was a normal first date, that chain was attached to her dog and hey, probably no surprise here, but I don’t want to be with anyone who threatens to beat an animal even if it’s just an act. And now that you know all that, you can probably guess that there also wasn’t a second date.”

Relief pulls the tension out of Gil’s muscles. “Why didn’t you say something?” he says, putting a hand on Malcolm’s shoulder.

“Like what? Sorry for accidentally butt dialing you and making you think I was getting spanked for being a _bad_ boy?”

Gil retrieves his hand and glances upwards. He deserved that. He also didn’t need the reminder. His palms go instantly damp. “Fair enough, kid. So, now that we’ve cleared that up, have a good rest of your night. I’ll give you a call when another case comes up.”

But Malcolm doesn’t step away or turn to leave. “I don’t think we really _have_ cleared this up,” he says, still keeping his tone low.

“How so?”

“The thing is…you haven’t been looking at me like you were embarrassed by what you quote-unquote heard. Well, sometimes you have. But a lot of the time you’ve been looking at me like you, um.” Malcolm clears his throat delicately. “Let’s just say that the way you reacted at the phrases ‘spanked’ and ‘bad boy’ just now is...telling.”

Okay, so this is going to be a longer and more difficult conversation than he’d thought. Also one that he definitely doesn’t want to hold in the precinct. Gil grabs his coat, wondering how in the fuck he’s going to explain himself.

“Come on, I’ll give you a ride home and we’ll finish this conversation in the car.”

*

After a few blocks Gil’s been gripping the steering wheel like it’s a lifeline and still hasn’t come up with a single way to apologize for his behavior.

“It’s fine, you know,” Malcolm tells him.

From the corner of his eye Gil catches Malcolm glance towards him and then stare down at the clasp of his hands in his lap. It’s uncomfortably similar to the way he’d sulked on late-night stakeouts fifteen years ago when he’d been desperate to avoid his mother but knew he’d feel awful if he didn’t go back and apologize. He’s clearly got a world of things he’s wanting to say to Gil right now.

Gil sighs. It’s not fine, and if he wakes up in the morning and his whole head’s turned grey, he’ll know the reason. “Look, kid, whatever it is, just spit it out; I can’t feel more humiliated than I already do.”

Malcolm twists halfway in the seat and blows a breath out through his nose before launching a full barrage of questions at him, one after the other. They spill out of him rapidfire, and as Gil fights his way through an intersection, he’s left thinking that talking this out in the car was a terrible idea.

“...so you thought I was in the middle of some sort of kinky impact scene, and honestly I think you’re fine with that part—which admittedly leads to more questions of their own—but, putting that aside,” Malcolm takes a breath, and his focus gains a keen edge. “What I really can’t figure out is why one minute it seems like you’re looking at me like I’m a _snack_ and you’re ready to bend me over _your_ knee, and then at other times it’s like you’re almost... disappointed? Or annoyed maybe?

“A different sort of annoyed than I usually make you,” Malcolm quantifies after a beat with a slight wince.

His hold on the wheel having grown even more desperate, Gil deliberately stretches his fingers and does his best not to rear end the asshole in front of him.

“I admit I’ve had some very unprofessional thoughts as a result of this misunderstanding,” Gil says, choosing his words very carefully. “In the future, I will do my best to make your work environment feel safe. If that means letting JT and Dani run lead, or giving you space, then I’ll make it happen.”

“I think there’s still a bit of miscommunication happening,” Malcolm hedges. “It’s distracting yes, but not unwelcome. The opposite, actually. And safe? Gil—”

Malcolm settles back into the bucket seat again, his hand resting atop his knee in a loose fist. Gil glances over to see him spread his fingers open and stare thoughtfully at his palm. His expression shifts towards something vulnerable.

“Even though getting topped is one of the few things that calms me down, I don’t really scene with people anymore because I hardly ever feel safe. If there’s one person in this world I can trust without reservation, it’s you.”

The implication hanging in the air between them leaves Gil holding his breath, hesitating to draw it into his lungs and let it pour back out in the shape of the question he wants to ask.

“It means a lot to me that you trust me that much, kid,” Gil says finally, trying to put the distance between them again. The comfortable familiarity of the relationship that has built up between them since Malcolm was a scared little boy.

When he drops Malcolm off and struggles to watch him go, he’s not sure he’s succeeded.

*

A few days later Gil’s nearly convinced himself it’s worked and that when the next case comes his way, things will be just as they were when Malcolm first came back to the city. There’s been nothing so far, and no desperate calls from Malcolm yet, so maybe the kid’s doing all right. 

He’s fresh out of the shower after his workout when there’s a knock at his door. He slings his towel around his neck as he goes to answer it, expecting Auntie Rivera from down the hall looking for her cat again. Instead, it’s his own stray shivering on the mat.

“Bright? Who let you in the building?”

“You gave me a key when I was fourteen,” he says, pulling a face. “I’m surprised it still works. You’ve never changed your locks?”

“I don’t own the building, kid, and most people don’t do that on the regular.”

“Lucky them,” Malcolm says, with the wry tone that means he’s judging Jessica for always trying to keep an eye on him. He peers curiously past Gil. “Can I come in?”

Gil’s about to say he’s not sure that’s a good idea because how’s he supposed to keep any kind of barriers up like this, but the kid is struggling to hold still, his fingers hidden in his coat pockets but surely shaking. Wordlessly Gil steps aside to let him in.

He flips the locks, puts on the chain, and tosses his towel over the back of a chair at the dinette. “You want tea or water?”

Malcolm follows at his heels, frantic energy bleeding freely into the air. This is more amped up than he usually seems between cases, so something has definitely set him off. Probably not Jessica, or that snarkiness about the locks would be sharp enough to draw blood. 

“Tea please. No, wait. Water.”

Gil swaps out the mug for a glass and fills it from the fridge, sliding it onto the counter in front of Malcolm, who immediately takes the stool there like it hasn’t been ten years since he’d stepped foot in here. He hunches forward, trying to contain whatever it is that’s eating at him.

Gil puts his palms on the tile countertop and leans forward like a bartender. “You want to talk about it?”

“I’m not sure.”

“So you were just in the neighborhood at a quarter to twelve and thought you’d pop by.”

“Just stretching my legs.”

“Well you stretched them pretty far. You and your mother fighting again?” Gil is still fairly sure this isn’t about Jessica but maybe that’ll give Malcolm a place to start. Sometimes, Malcolm seems to open up so easily and freely share whatever is on his mind, but then at other times he’ll dance around a subject until he’s herded towards an answer.

“No we’re still shockingly getting along. Brunch on Thursday, some sort of function at her club on Friday night. Thrilling stuff.”

Gil leans down, bracing his forearms on the tile to put himself at Malcolm’s eye level. He goes to the next suspect on the list. “Bad dream?”

“Always. But nothing worse than the usual.”

He smiles softly and hopes Malcolm doesn’t interpret it as pity. How much, he can’t help but wonder, did being able to give up control help Malcolm tame all those demons he can never seem to get rid of?

“So what is it then? Sister? Your yoga teacher? Another bad date…?”

At that, Malcolm flinches a little. He rolls the glass between his fingertips, streaks forming in the condensation.

“I—“ Malcolm sucks in a deep breath, and wraps his hands tightly around the glass. “After you dropped me off the other day I couldn’t stop thinking about it, Gil: the annoyance or disappointment, whatever it was when you kept looking at me and not thinking about, you know.... And you all but admitted that you were thinking about me in a sexual context, but is it a problem that I’ve thought about you like that too? Did you even know that before I told you?”

Fuck. Gil stands tall and runs his hands through his hair. He hadn’t even considered that any of this would send Malcolm spiralling, but of course it would. He’d have been fine in the moment, but then alone he’d have analyzed the whole interaction. Over-analyzed it for days clearly, and without a case to distract him, his mind had been frantically trying to find meaning where there wasn’t any.

“Hey,” Gil reaches out and gently pulls Malcolm’s hand away from the glass to hold it between his own. He shoves down the queasy thrill in his gut that rises up at touching Malcolm now; he can’t let the kid think this awkwardness between them is going to last forever. “I didn’t know that you did, not for sure, and it’s okay. That disappointment you were sensing, it wasn’t with you. It was at the idea of someone—of your top—talking down to you. Degrading you.”

The trembling in Malcolm’s hand crests before ebbing away towards stillness. Gil rubs extra warmth into his fingers and gathers the courage to say what’s been sitting on his tongue like a mouthful of tacks. He releases Malcolm’s hand slowly, leaving his own clasped loosely together nearby on the tile—neutral, but not withdrawing. “You were right that I’d been looking at you and thinking about— Well, about putting you in your place, but mostly what I was thinking at the time is that if it had been me, I’d treat you differently.”

The lift of Malcolm’s gaze to meet his pierces into Gil like a hook, catches under his breastbone and steals his breath. Makes him want to lean forward and tug Malcolm towards him to ease the sting. He can’t though, no matter how soft and hopeful—how _needy_ —the kid is looking at him right now. No matter that he’d said in the car that he didn’t mind….

“Oh god, I want that.”

“Malcolm, you don’t,” Gil insists quietly, shaking his head as his brows draw tight together. If only saying it could make it true. For the both of them. “You don’t really, not with me.”

“I do,” Malcolm insists. “I haven’t— It’s been years, Gil, since I subbed for someone. I don’t think I realized how much I’d missed it. And I always knew you were a top, but I didn’t consider that you were a _top_. Fuck. Please.”

He could stand firm and escort the kid home a second time, or even offer to let him stay here bundled on the couch with a blanket. Or, he could say fuck being responsible and do the thing he really wants to do.

He’d already sent Malcolm tumbling off his axis once already, and if doing this for him would make it that much harder for something to trigger him, would that really be the worst thing? Wrong?

Malcolm’s eyes flicker between his, as if he’s straight up reading the thoughts tumbling through Gil’s mind. “I’d like to remind you that I’m an adult. A fully consenting and willing adult.”

The rational part of Gil’s brain is stating rather plainly that yes, of course Malcolm’s an adult, and of fucking course it’s still wrong. But the rest of him? The part that says nothing in Malcolm’s life—Hell, nothing in _his_ life—will ever be normal because of the Surgeon...that part rides roughshod over any argument he can think to make to himself. What does it matter if it’s something Malcolm truly wants from him? Something that he wants to give?

“Bright….”

“Please,” Malcolm says, and the pleading look he gives Gil is haunted at the edges, shadowed and wounded.

“What do you need from me?” Gil asks, heart in his throat.

“Oh god, would you really put me over your knee?” Malcolm looks dazed at the thought alone. A soft breath that’s nearly a sigh leaks from between his parted lips. “I want to wake up tomorrow with proof that it was real and feel it every time I move.”

Gil aches to reach up and cradle Malcolm’s chin, to pull that soft, awestruck gaze back into focus. Already he’s summoning up all the fantasies that’ve been flitting in and out of his head all week: watching Malcolm struggle to hold still when he’s spanked a dark red, the heat that’d rise from his skin and show flush on his face, laying the kid on his back after when he’s so sensitive even the sheets feel like sandpaper and then making him beg to come.

“Hand, belt, or spoon?” he finds himself asking, and somehow his voice doesn’t break when it draws a proper moan out of Malcolm.

“Anything.”

“Pick one for me, kid. Doesn’t have to be a final answer, just somewhere to start. It’s been a while you’d said.”

He can see Malcolm’s mind grind into gear again and then kick straight into overdrive, skipping past what’s in front of him and working out what’s waiting for him three jumps down the line. “I have really high pain tolerance,” Malcolm explains, answering the question Gil hasn’t asked yet.

Carefully, Gil reels him back. “For everything? For both swats and stings?”

“Oh fuck, Gil. How many times have you…?”

“This isn’t about me anymore,” Gil says, cordoning that discussion off before it brings up anything hurtful.

“Of course, sorry Daddy.”

 _Daddy_. Fuck. Malcolm calling him that is like a kick in the nuts, a swift and sudden shock that his body doesn’t know how to process until suddenly there’s a sensation rocketing along his nerves like lit gasoline. He can see that Malcolm reads it on his face, microexpressions betraying how much it turns him on—how awkward it is for that to turn him on hearing it from Malcolm of all people.

Gil shifts his weight. In for a penny…. “Daddy asked you a question, Malcolm,” he says, desire leaking rough into his voice. He hesitates briefly then brings his hand up to tip Malcolm’s chin higher, until his throat is stretched taut and his lashes are trembling.

Despite the flutter of his lashes, he’s calming back down again, hanging on Gil’s touch and on every word as Gil asks: “Can you tolerate both swats and stings?”

“Yes,” Malcolm replies, blinking away that dazed stare into the sort of narrow-focus that says he’s already all-in.

“Stoplight or safeword? And are you sure you’re in the right state of mind for this?”

“Safeword please, mine’s _amygdala,_ and no, but am I ever really?” Malcolm says, his mouth tugging towards a self-deprecating smile.

“Cold words?”

“None.”

“Hot words?”

Malcolm swallows and his lashes shiver again. His fingers follow suit. “I um—”

“You don’t have to answer if there’s nothing big I need to avoid.”

“No, it’s okay. My uh—”

Malcolm shuts his eyes and forcibly evens out his breathing before he opens them again.

“My h— My hot buttons are pussy, boy, kid, most medical terminology...,” he admits, his face growing paler and his hands shaking so hard that Gil has to move the glass out of the way. “ _Son_ ,” he adds, the word wrenching out of him as he breaks his gaze away from Gil’s.

Malcolm abruptly slides off the stool, his breath coming so hard and fast that Gil suspects he’s fighting off a panic attack. But then he’s shedding his coat, leaving it to fall in the middle of the floor and shaking out his hands and coming back to face Gil, all the blood that had drained out of him back in his face and his cheeks tinged pink. He’s visibly aroused. “Oh fuck, Gil. You might need to tie me down.”

Gil has to smother a smirk, because of course this is how it’s going to go. Malcolm just ready to jump straight in, too impatient for anything else. They’d gotten the basics though, and the way Malcolm had almost slipped into the headspace before revealing the words that really turn his crank—God, there’s a lot to unpack there, but now’s not the time. Right now, Gil’s pretty sure that at least here, Malcolm’s going to listen to what he says.

“Take a few sips of water, will you?” He puts the glass back in front of the kid and waits for him to do as told before sliding open a drawer and tossing a wooden spoon onto the countertop. “Now put that between your teeth like a good boy.”

Gil takes a moment to stretch, even though the workout left him limbered up, and he nods approvingly when Malcolm bites the handle, a garbled moan spilling out around the wood. He flicks a finger at Malcom’s shirtfront, a subtle request for him to undress, and it makes Gil feel a little dirty to watch him strip, but at the same time he can’t tear his eyes away. That little voice in the back of his head is saying this fucked up—this is the same kid who tugged at his sleeve twenty years ago, the same teenager who made dumbass choices in clubs he had no business being in. But this is also the man who caught more than one killer in his time in the FBI, who’s become an integral part of his team, and who is peeling his shirt open with a look that says yes, he wants this badly and yes, Gil really is the only person he can trust to do this for him.

“Keep the shorts on. Let’s do this on the couch, yeah?” Gil says, heading straight there. No way in Hell he’s taking Malcolm into his bedroom, not in the same bed he’d shared with his wife. He tosses the pillows off to the floor and shoves the coffee table away to make room. He gestures for Malcolm to come close.

“Last chance to back out. Do you want to stop?”

Malcolm shakes his head no. His brow is furrowed, anxious, like he’s worried this is all going to stop and he’s going to wake up shackled alone to his bed.

Gil lays his hands on Malcolm’s shoulders, letting his palms curl warm against the kid’s skin, warm and reassuring. Slowly, he slides them down to bracket Malcolm’s arms. He lets his thumbs drift over the soft skin of at Malcolm’s inner elbows.

“Your safeword is ‘amygdala’, right?”

His mouth tightens into a small smile at Malcolm’s muffled agreement and too-enthusiastic nod, the faint twitch under his hands that says Malcolm still hasn’t even begun to settle down. If he’s going to Hell for this, at least let it be to give Malcolm a bit of peace on the other side of this.

Gil leans down to push his lips against Malcolm’s forehead, and only feels a little guilty when he murmurs, “That’s my boy,” and a full-body quiver runs through the kid.

He doesn’t give Malcolm a chance to stop reeling, just sits and drags him down, pulling him into place across his lap with plenty of room for Malcolm to lay across the cushions. Malcolm’s erection digs into the outside of his thigh, and Gil doesn’t discourage him from wriggling a bit when he feels the hard nudge of Gil’s own cock under him.

“That’s right, Daddy’s hard for you already,” Gil says, and runs his palm over the sweet curve of Malcolm’s ass. The fabric of Malcolm’s boxer briefs snags against his palm, where during his workout the grips on the weights roughened the calluses at the base of each of his fingers. He gives one cheek a squeeze and Malcolm’s groan echoes in the room. “I want you to hold that spoon until you’re warmed up. If your jaw gets tired, you keep it in your hand.”

“Yes, Daddy,” Malcolm says, the words slurring and muted and still enough to make a fresh surge of blood go straight to Gil’s dick.

The kid swallows spit around the makeshift gag and dips his head down, his forehead pressing to the cushions between the diamond of his arms. His hands thread together, slim fingers twisting into knots as he waits.

Well, let him wait, Gil thinks. He can sit with that edgy need driving him a little longer. Ought to, in order to know that he can manage it here with Gil to watch over him.

“You’re holding still so well in Daddy’s lap,” Gil tells him, holding to his waist with one hand and rubbing small circles against his bottom with the other. He moves from one cheek to the other until he’s sure the skin there is warm and all of Malcolm’s attention is drawn there and away from his dick.

The first swat is nothing, just a soft smack to cause a bit of jiggle. It gets a sound of Malcolm anyway, a faint whine that doesn’t have time to fade before Gil gives him a second, harder swat. He pauses for an appreciative squeeze then lays down a half dozen hits, each strike landing more firmly than the last. Malcolm’s shorts mute the sound of each hit, and it only drives up the anticipation eating Gil to get his hands on the kid’s bare ass. If it’s been a while for Malcolm for this sort of thing, it’s definitely been longer for him.

“That’s it, just a few more and then we’ll take these off,” Gil tells him, giving the elastic waist of his shorts a little snap.

Malcolm bucks his hips and swallows noisily, desperately trying to keep from drooling around the handle of the spoon.

As Gil gives him those promised swats, he moves his other hand to high in the center of the kid’s back, bracing it between the wings of his shoulder blades. The minute he does, a bit of tension melts out of Malcolm, and then after the next swat it’s like a dam breaks. Malcolm moans and practically goes boneless, that ramped up energy pouring out of him as he gives himself entirely into Gil’s hands.

“There we go, son, Daddy’s got you,” Gil says. He slides a hand down the back of Malcolm’s underwear, greedy for the feel of skin under his fingers. Quietly he urges Malcolm to lift up just enough to let him pull them down, praising him as he does and rewarding him with those same squeezing touches when his ass is bare.

The heat of Malcolm’s dick soaks right through Gil’s thin sweats, and Gil briefly closes his eyes, enjoying the feel of having a body lain over his lap like this. “You have no idea how good you’re making Daddy feel right now,” he tells Malcolm, fingers sweeping briefly down the hot cleft of the kid’s ass. “Now, hold still for Daddy as he gets you really warmed up.”

Tension creeps back into Malcolm’s body as Gil raises his arm up. He holds his hand high until Malcolm’s practically vibrating, and when that first real hit lands, the crack of it is so fucking good Gil loses a groan into the air.

Malcolm whimpers, tipping his bottom up to invite another swat. Gil gives it to him gladly, the smack striking loud and hard enough for pink to flush into Malcolm’s skin in the aftermath. He keeps going, one swat after another, trusting that Malcolm really does have the pain tolerance he claims and soon it’s less of the quick slapping smacks and more meaty thuds that land hard enough to rock Malcolm against his lap. And between the flurry of hits, during the brief pauses when he squeezes to feel where Malcolm’s skin is hot and where the pink has ceased fading, he murmurs words of encouragement: _Daddy loves the way you feel, son; you’re being so very good; that’s my good boy…._

Gil’s spitting on his fingers and sliding them between Malcolm’s legs to feel for his hole when he realizes they hadn’t talked about this at all, but he’s already there, and Malcolm’s moaning around the spoon between his teeth and rubbing eagerly against the slick press of Gil’s fingertips. Malcolm’s hands have been spread for a while now, palms flat on the cushions of the couch and his fingers wide, tendons taut and straining.

“Daddy wants to put his finger in you,” Gil says, spit-slick finger poised to breach. Lust curls red-hot in him, makes his balls draw up tight and tense. “You want that, son? Do you want Daddy’s finger in your tight little pussy?”

 _”Oh, fuck!”_ Malcolm says on an explosive breath, his head jerking up suddenly and the spoon falling from his mouth. He swears again and gasps for breath, his body shaking with want. “Fuck yes. Please.”

Under Gil’s fingertips Malcolm’s hole twitches, soft flesh irising as the kid tries to shift to rescue the spoon and hold it in his fist as he was supposed to. Gil reaches to grab it first.

“Perfect timing, I was just about to ask for that,” Gil tells him, and presses Malcolm back to the cushions. He switches hands, spitting on the fingers of his left and reaching across himself to tickle at Malcolm’s rim again while finding a good grip on the handle of the spoon.

He gives the spoon a couple test smacks at the crease of Malcolm’s thighs, light taps that are all sound and no sting. “Your pussy’s so tight, son, you sure Daddy’s going to be able to get his finger in you?” he asks, and maybe he’s overusing Malcolm’s hot words, but the way it makes the kid react…. Gil can’t help but wonder how tight he’d squeeze and how hard he’d buck if he said that to the kid while fucking him. Hell, it’s making _him_ go a little light headed right now. “Be a good boy and open up for Daddy.”

Gil feels Malcolm’s hole clench even tighter reflexively, then as soon as he consciously eases up, Gil smacks Malcolm properly with the spoon. It’s firecracker loud, and so is Malcolm. Enough that Gil is damn thankful that most of his neighbors work nights or are old enough they listen to the television full blast.

“Daddy’s trying, son,” he says, finger a flickering tickle again.

Another crack of wood on flesh. Another tight clench under his spit wet fingers. Again and again— _whap, whap, whap_ —until his own breath is rough and a new trembling starts up in Malcolm, the kid’s breath coming in gulps and the sound of his yelping cries broken by almost-sobs.

“I know it hurts, son. I know. But you’re taking it beautifully and you’re making Daddy so hard. Can you feel how hard I am?”

“I c-can.”

“Good. So you know how much I like seeing your ass turn red. Daddy’s thinking about how good your pussy must feel too. He can’t wait to feel inside you.”

When his touch begins to drag, he spreads Malcolm’s cheeks wide to spit directly on his hole. The kid’s waxed smooth like a porn star, and the rosy pink flash of his asshole matches the warm glow on his backside. Gil’s fingers slip teasingly against the heat of him, dip in to where he’d need to really push to enter, and again, the moment he feels Malcolm try and relax, he gives the kid a real sharp whack with the spoon.

Malcolm jerks, head turning to pillow his cheek on the cushions. One of his legs starts to try and slip to the floor. God, Gil thinks as he grabs that leg to pull it back into place, Malcolm must love to get fucked. He might be aching for it right now, a dull and building want amongst the brightly glowing heat of his skin.

“Please, Daddy,” Malcolm whines. He’s practically panting, each ragged breath quick and fast as he wriggles his bottom. 

Gil can’t tell if he’s begging to feel that finger slip into him or the smack of the wooden spoon. The kid’s ass is not nearly red enough, not bruised, so they’ve got a ways to go.

“Please, Daddy, what?” Gil scrapes the curving edge of the spoon over the most tender looking patch of Malcolm’s skin.

“Please spank me hard like that again. It hurts so good,” he says, and there’s that quality to his voice that says he’s thriving on the sting.

Just how high _is_ his pain tolerance? Would Malcolm just keep going until his skin was split and bleeding. After getting his ass handed to him by the Junkyard Killer, those bruised ribs had barely slowed the kid down. 

Gil gives Malcolm one last lingering rub at his hole then a light pat before sweeping a touch along the length of him, up the smooth span of his back and then down to curl around at his waist again. Well, if he wants it hard. Gil can do it hard. 

He lays a hit on one cheek and then the other, hardly stopping. Crack after stinging crack echoes off the walls along with Malcolm’s cries—muffled sometimes in the meat of his arm while others wail raw out of his throat. Gil spanks Malcolm until the kid’s ass is blazing red and he’s stopped crying out because each howl is broken before it can begin by gasping sobs. Until Malcolm can’t hold still at all and turns into a wriggling, whimpering mess. Finally, when Malcolm is gulping for air and a bright cherry red, Gil tosses the spoon aside to give him a few more heavy swats with his palm, thudding hits that makes Malcolm rock in his lap and his flesh jiggle.

And when he’s done with that, he admires his handiwork with a slow caress, feeling the heat pouring out of all that angry red skin. He tells Malcolm to get up and roll over, and the way Malcolm obeys immediately makes Gil’s breath hitch. How can such a good submissive be so bad at taking orders any other time?

The kid’s pretty face is tear streaked, body still shaking as he can’t quite stop crying and they turn into little hiccuping noises. Gil reaches for the tissues on the coffee table. Helps him clean up a bit and even out. A tender hand, Gil thinks, as he sees a glimpse of that blissful calm under the wild tangle of sensation inundating Malcolm.

“Here we go, Daddy’s going to make you feel even better now.”

“Promise?” Malcolm mumbles, and there’s a bit of slyness to it under the dreamy softness, the hint of a brat showing through.

If he was getting his needs met on the regular, would he do that more? Pushback and pout and make Daddy teach him a lesson for his own good? Gil’s already trying to work it out as he moves the kid where he wants him, drags him down until his ass is on the padded arm of the couch and the weight of his body bearing down on where he’s most tender. His legs hang over the edge, toes just barely on the floor and not enough to relieve the pressure. 

Malcolm’s cock is almost as dark as his ass, throbbing with the beat of his heart and the head so hard it’s shining. 

Gil grabs one of those abandoned throw pillows for his knees and goes down to bury his face between Malcolm’s thighs and lick at his hole. Malcolm gasps and squirms, hissing as the fabric of the couch rubs against him where he’s spanked raw and stinging.

“Does Daddy’s sweet boy like that?” he asks. He grips the back of the couch, making the both of them wait for the reward of another caress. 

“God, yes. It’s amazing, Daddy.”

“Daddy’s going to eat your sweet little pussy, son, and then he’s going to come right on your dick, and if you’re very good, he’s going to let you come too.”

Malcolm groans and arches, his hands pressing to his chest. “I’ll be good,” he says, the words chopped up by whimper when the shift in his weight makes his ass scrape against the upholstery.

“I know, sweetheart.”

Now, Gil rewards him with a touch: sweeping his hand lovingly down the full length of Malcolm’s leg and then back up again along the inside. The back of his knuckles trail lightly over the jut of Malcolm’s ankle and over the fine hairs of his leg.

“You always want to be good for Daddy, don’t you, son?” Gil says, pressing a light kiss to the inside of Malcolm’s knee.

“Yes.”

“You want to be very good for me.”

“I do,” Malcolm says, a vow delivered on the soft rush of his breath. Another kiss lain soft on his thigh and he whimpers again, twists like he’s trying to contain a fresh burst of tears. “I love you so much, Daddy.”

“I know, Malcolm,” Gil says. He presses his cheek against the inside of Malcolm’s leg and briefly closes his eyes. Malcolm’s breath catches and his entire body shakes as Gil presses another kiss into his skin. “I love you, too. Daddy loves you so much.”

Gil waits for the aftermath, ready to rise up and draw the kid into a hug if needed, but instead of a sob choking in his throat, the pendulum swings the other way, and Malcolm’s breath leaves him in a sighing exhale. He goes almost boneless, and Gil rises up on his knees to see a smile spreading blissfully on Malcolm’s face.

“Will you show me how much you love me, Daddy?” Malcolm asks. His tongue rolls out to wet his lip.

I try, every damn day, Gil thinks in the back of his head. He hauls his shirt off overhead and gives his cock a lazy tug through his sweats as he moves his mouth back close to Malcolm’s skin. “Does my son still want his pussy licked?” he asks, his breath washing warm over where Malcolm is spread and exposed.

“Yes. Yes, please,” Malcolm says. The kid squirms in pleasure, then jolts, a sharp breath sucked through his teeth and his hips trying to lift and ease the sudden influx of fresh hurt. 

Gil blows a soft puff of breath straight on his hole to distract Malcolm, and then puts his mouth back on the kid, tongue circling his rim before lapping at him. Each wet pass of his tongue gets Malcolm looser, and Gil spreads Malcolm’s thighs wider with his hands, thumbs stretching the kid’s rim as his tongue dips inside. He sucks a kiss right on Malcolm’s hole, tongue flicking and teasing until Malcolm can’t keep still and every single wriggle of the boy’s hips becomes a tangle of whimpering hurt and moaning pleasure.

Gil’s dick is an insistent throb hanging between his thighs, balls tight and just waiting for the chance to blow a load. He gives Malcolm one last lingering kiss at his hole, then another at the soft skin of his inner thigh. “Daddy enjoyed that,” he tells Malcolm, hand wiping over his goatee.

Malcolm’s only response is a soft, drawn-out moan. He’s still achingly hard, probably it won’t take more than a stroke or two to get him popping off.

With a quiet grunt, Gil stands and shoves the front of his sweats down under his balls. He fists the base of his cock and drags it over the wide open sprawl of Malcolm’s leg.

“Oh fuck,” Malcolm says, gaze rolling upwards briefly before snapping back to stare at Gil’s cock. “Oh god, Daddy. I want to see you come. Please— Please come on me.”

He leans forward to slide a hand up Malcolm’s front and enjoy the way the kid arches into the touch like a cat. “Help Daddy out, won’t you, son?” he says, thumb passing briefly over Malcolm’s mouth before holding his hand expectantly in front of Malcolm’s mouth. “Lick it nice and wet, just like I made your pussy.”

Malcolm’s tongue is sinfully soft, and there’s a faint twist in Gil’s gut. Maybe he is taking advantage of the kid, just a little. But at the same time, Malcolm looks so very happy to do this for him, and each gentle pass of Malcolm’s tongue washes away the guilt trying to creep up on him.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” Gil says, planting his other hand on Malcolm’s hip and digging his fingers under the kid to where that tender skin is still burning hot.

Gil thumbs the head of his dick, smearing it wet and edging the crown a bit as Malcolm watches, slack-mouthed and moaning. Hell, it feels like it’ll only be a few strokes before _he_ pops. 

“You ready, son?” Gil asks, fisting his dick properly and working it in tight strokes. He aims right at the hard jut of Malcolm’s straining cock and imagines what it would feel like to grab the kid’s ass and fuck right into him—to have those fresh-spanked cheeks quivering warm against his palms and Malcolm’s hole squeezing tight around him. “Is my boy ready for his Daddy’s come?”

Malcolm’s eyes widen and he chokes on a sound, his dick pulsing wildly, and it takes Gil a second to realize that the white striping the kid’s belly isn’t the first shot he’s painted Malcolm with, but Malcolm’s own come.

“Fuck, kid,” Gil says, his insides knotting up with lust when he wrings the rest of his orgasm out on Malcolm’s skin.

For a few heartbeats, Gil can’t think straight. 

After a moment, he stirs, grabbing up his shirt to wipe off his hand and pull up the waist of his sweats. Surveying the mess scattered across Malcolm’s belly turns his thoughts back to static. To have come like that, without a single touch…. Fuck.

He gently mops up the mess on Malcolm’s belly with his tee, wipes up the spit still left wet between his legs, then tosses his shirt over towards where he’d left his towel. The laundry bin can wait.

The kid’s breathing is still soft and shallow, his body flush with endorphins and riding the high. His heavy-lidded gaze follows Gil, head tipping back to keep eyes on Gil as he takes a seat at the far end of the couch.

“C’mere,” Gil says, “on your belly or on your side so it doesn’t hurt as much. Okay, kid?”

Malcolm twists lazily, crawling back over to sprawl across Gil’s lap. Gil grabs another abandoned pillow off the floor to give Malcolm something better to lay his head on than the arm of the couch as he tucks his legs up on the cushions.

Pulling a fleecy blanket off the back of the couch, Gil flings it over the both of them, rubbing the softness of it along Malcolm’s side and hip before sliding his palm around to the curve of his bottom and just holding there.

“Feel okay?”

“Better than okay,” Malcolm murmurs.

“Do you want to stay the night? Sleep here on the couch?”

Malcolm lifts a hand slightly and gives it a wiggle. “Shouldn’t risk it.”

Right, after what happened with that girl Eve…. Gil tightens his hold on Malcolm and Malcolm tucks a little closer to him. 

“Okay. We stay here another fifteen minutes, then I drive you home, all right?”

A faint furrow appears in Malcolm's brow. “You don’t need to do that, Gil. I can call a car,” he says, glancing up with a vague worry.

Warmth spreads through Gil’s chest and he brushes a stray bit of hair away from Malcolm’s temple, wipes away the little trickle of tears still leaking from the corner of the kid’s eyes.

“Sure you can, city boy, but you’re not going to,” Gil says, and smiles down at him.

He adjusts the blanket and shifts to settle in a little more comfortably to give Malcolm more time to come back to himself.

“Just hush and let me take care of my son.”

**Author's Note:**

> Read more of my [Prodigal Son fics](https://archiveofourown.org/works?utf8=%E2%9C%93&commit=Sort+and+Filter&work_search%5Bother_tag_names%5D=Prodigal+Son+%28TV+2019%29&user_id=ponderosa121), or talk to me about this twink getting wrecked on Twitter [@ponderosa121](https://twitter.com/ponderosa121) or on Discord in [Prodigal Son Trash](https://discord.gg/fQaRgBD).


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